No Such Thing as a Free Lunch
by Doors
Summary: Greyback might be losing his touch, but it doesn't mean he needs Scabior to look after him.


Scabior's flat was in the basement of a creaky old house, and the steam from the kettle and the cooking in the kitchen tended to crawl up the walls and breed damp in the corners. It condensed there back into water, and dripped pitifully onto the sink and the countertop at short intervals with pathetic little _plunk_s.

The windows were set high in the wall, and allowed whoever was in the room to glimpse only snatches of people's feet passing in the street, although they were thin and let the cold in too easily.

This usually cumulated in steam fogging the glass, making it almost impossible to see outside, and giving the impression one was trapped in some sort of bunker. Today it was worse. Greyback was sat at his kitchen table, breath coming in hot, hard pants, fogging up the windows even more. It was almost like that Muggle film he'd seen once, Scabior thought with a smirk, except that there was nothing romantic about having Greyback in his kitchen at all.

He had turned up unannounced, with a black eye and a nosebleed, claiming be starving, to have misplaced his wand, and to have bunions. He'd gone straight to the kitchen and taken Scabior's good roast ham, then sat down as though it was some sort of canteen and told him he wanted a cup of tea.

Scabior had rolled his eyes as he put the kettle on, and swiped an annoying drop of water from his eyebrow. It wasn't unlike Greyback to do things like this, and to be honest he didn't mind – it alleviated his boredom – but he had to at least pretend he was irritated, or else Greyback would have taken the piss out of him from now until God knows when for being a sap.

"What 'appened you, then?" he asked, turning to face him and lounging back on the counter, arms crossed. "Lynch mob?"

"No," said Greyback, who had been in the middle of biting a chunk of ham and hadn't waited until his mouth was empty. Scabior groaned and looked away. Greyback swallowed, then continued. "I was going to get a pint of milk."

"Right…" said Scabior. "And, what, there was a riot?"

"There was a _woman_," growled Greyback in a low voice, and Scabior raised his eyebrows, making a suggestive clucking sound. Greyback tried to scowl at him, then winced and pressed a hand to his swollen eye.

"'Ere, d'you need some Murtlap Essence for that or somethin'?"

"No," said Greyback, but he hissed with pain as he tried to remove his hand. Scabior said nothing, but went to his cupboard while Greyback tried to pretend he didn't notice, and continued. "She was on her own. I thought she… Well, I followed her."

"I see," said Scabior, half-smiling as he came back to the table with the bottle of yellow liquid. It was nearly empty; being involved in the Death Eaters meant getting a lot of scrapes and bruises, and Scabior wasn't one for dealing with pain that he didn't have to. He took the seat next to Greyback's, and Summoned a cloth, pouring some out onto it. "Look at me." Greyback did, and Scabior pressed the cloth to the side of his eye. Greyback let out a little moan of relief, then swatted Scabior's hand away.

"I told you, I don't need that."

"So this bird you were followin', she just 'it you with a Stingin' Jinx, or what?"

"Something like that," muttered Greyback, who was massaging his injury. His lip curled; the dirt on his hands was irritating it. Scabior gave a little smile of mild amusement.

"A witch with the power to cast a decent Stingin' Jinx was on 'er way to a Muggle corner shop to buy a pint of milk. Sure, I believe you."

"I didn't say she was buying milk, I said I was buying milk."

"Yeah, but what's the chances of two magical people goin' to the same Muggle shop at the same time? She were a Muggle, weren't she?"

There was a brief moment of silence, as though Greyback was trying to consider whether or not he should lie, then he seemed to decide that Scabior already knew he was lying anyway, and admitted, "Alright, then, yes, she was. So _what_? She hit hard."

"Hm." Scabior furrowed his brow, and twisted the damp cloth in his hands, trying not to smile as he spoke. "She 'it 'arder than you could 'old 'er?"

"I didn't get a chance to," growled Greyback. "She'd already realised I was there before I could get hold of her."

"You're gettin' slow in your old age, mate."

Greyback snarled. "I could kill you right _now_ if I wanted to, _mate_."

Scabior shrugged. "Nah, you wouldn't. I know. You like me too much."

"You watch your mouth or that won't matter."

"Alright, alright, don't get your knickers in a twist. Anyway, what'd she do to you? She 'ave a black belt, or what?"

"What's a black belt?"

"It's like a Muggle award for fightin'. I think."

"Oh. I don't think she was wearing one of those."

"No?"

"No, she had a yellow duffle coat on."

"_Stylish_." Scabior clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"Yes, well. I think she saw me in the reflection of the shop window."

"You oughta be more careful. That's the trouble with these young 'uns, y'see? Faster reaction times, Greyback. You 'ave to learn to deal with people you can 'andle. I know you don't wanna 'ear this, but—"

"Quiet!" snarled Greyback, banging a fist on the table. "I can handle young folks. _She_ wasn't—I mean, I wasn't _expecting_…"

"So she was a surprisin'ly feisty middle-aged office-worker? Not your usual type, granted, but I s'pose variety's the spice of life and all that."

Greyback coughed and muttered something, eyes cast downwards, staring hard at the table.

"Sorry, what's that? Can't quite make you out."

"I said she was an older lady," mumbled Greyback.

"Older lady?"

"Yes."

"As in, like, a little old woman? With grey hair and wellie-boots and an 'airnet and a flowery 'andbag?"

Greyback shuddered. "Don't talk about the handbag."

"Bloody 'ell! She 'it you with 'er _'andbag_? And you just ran away? You? Greyback?"

"I DIDN'T just _run_, I—Well—She hit me right in the _eye_, Scabior! I couldn't see what I was doing!"

Scabior scoffed. "No wonder you look so awful. 'Ow many time's d'she 'it you?" Greyback mumbled something. "You lost count? Brilliant. That is… brilliant." Scabior needed to let it sink in for a moment, then he began to laugh. "That is 'ilarious, you know that, mate? You just got beaten up by a little old lady – with an _'andbag_!" He dissolved into a fit of giggles.

"That's enough! Shut UP!" roared Greyback.

A few more laughs – he wasn't able to stop himself – then Scabior sat up straight, mouth twitching, trying to regain his composure. "'Ere, you better get some of this on it, then. It might swell."

Greyback grunted his agreement, conceding that, realistically, now that Scabior knew, he could hardly be embarrassed any further. Scabior poured out a little more Murtlap Essence onto his cloth, and dabbed at Greyback's eye.

"I can do that myself, you know," Greyback muttered.

"Nah, love, I don't think you can."

Greyback's lip curled, and he seemed about to snap at Scabior when the kettle went off, whistling _Three Blind Mice_ and blasting steam into the air. The both of them flinched. "Your kettle's boiled," said Greyback, redundantly. "Are you going to make me tea, then, or what?"

Scabior withdrew the cloth from Greyback's eye, and he groaned. "Oh, sorry, you want me to do that for you an' all?" He stood up and went to remove the kettle from the hob. Greyback snatched up the cloth and held it to his eye. "You wanna be more careful next time," said Scabior. "Can't 'ave people thinkin' you need me to take care of you, can we?"

"You're not," said Greyback. "Shall we make that clear? You're just… being a friend, alright?"

"Right," said Scabior, returning to the table with two mugs of tea, and Summoning the milk and sugar. "But, whatever I am: carer, friend… lover—" he winked at him, infuriatingly, "—you're gonna need to pay me for that 'am, 'cause it cost a bloody fortune."

* * *

_Written for the OTP Boot Camp with the prompt 'battered'._


End file.
